1 Off Kilter (7 page)

I spent the evening holed up in my room hovering over my laptop, thankful for the Whistling Inn’s Internet connection. Checking my e-mail, I found that Ami had sent several, all variations on a theme: “Is the guy who saved you on his white horse, single? Cute? You really need to get back on the horse that threw you. Ha-ha. Have you checked out kilts yet? And if not, why not?”

“Okay,” she’d written in the last one, “so maybe your introduction to Scotland wasn’t the smoothest (although I’m telling you, that guy has serious possibilities), but at least you made it to the Highlands in one piece. The rest of your trip will probably be smooth sailing from here on out.”

If only.

Back in Chicago, Ami wouldn’t have been awake yet. She wasn’t an early riser, and with the time difference she wouldn’t see my return e-mail for several hours more. I could only imagine her expression as I wrote up the events that had occurred since my comparatively tame earlier adventure with the rental car breakdown. Finding the sheep shearer’s dead body, and my subsequent introduction to a Scottish murder investigation, sure trumped a little car trouble!

After giving it a bit of thought, though—and to give myself a little breathing space from my overly concerned friend—I went back and downplayed the criminal aspects of my trip and added a little scolding about her pushiness. “You,” I wrote back, “are so transparent! Please read my virtual lips: I. Am. Not. Looking. For. A. Romantic relationship! Now I’m off to write.” And I signed off by reassuring Ami that “I might go off-line here and there but only to devote time to the novel. Don’t worry about me. Everything is peachy!”

Right. Just peachy.

With that, I closed my e-mail and turned my attention to my work in progress,
Falling for You
.

My heroine, Gillian Fraser, returns to her hometown in Rosehearty, Scotland, after having her heart broken and is working for her brother’s dive shop, taking divers out into the North Sea to explore shipwrecks and view sea life. (I’d done some fascinating research on diving but knew I’d have to get out there to experience it firsthand as well sometime.) She encounters rugged, sexy Jack Ross, wealthy owner of a local distillery who doesn’t believe in love at first sight until he meets Gillian, and then . . .

Well, this was where I was a bit stuck. Could Gillian and Jack discover a love strong enough to last?

I certainly hadn’t.

But this was fiction. Anything could happen, and I had every intention of making their relationship work.

So, with renewed commitment, I lost myself in the story, adding some of the Highlands’ amazing scenery into the first chapters. My best friend might have been correct when she told me I had to experience its beauty to make it come alive on the page. I wrote, or rather revised, until around midnight, when I’d finished reworking several chapters. Writing always transports me to a place far removed from the real world, but now my blurring vision told me it was time for bed.

I changed into my standard nightwear, a well-worn oversized T-shirt, and climbed into bed. I’d kept busy all day, surrounded by people and activities, so I hadn’t had time to think much about the murder victim, or the protruding sheep shears, or all the blood on the floor. Until now. Those disturbing images would be with me for a long time, maybe forever.

Unlike last night, tonight sleep eluded me. I tried counting sheep, which seemed apropos, considering my current location. I’d never counted sheep before, but it must have worked, because the next thing I knew, the clock on the nightstand had fast-forwarded several hours and someone was shouting in the hallway.

“Where’s it coming from?” I heard a man yell. He sounded close, right outside my door. “We have to find the source!”

Right then, I smelled smoke, the feeling of it raw in my lungs, leeching precious oxygen from the room. I slung the covers aside and leapt from bed. At the same time I heard banging on my door.

“In here!” More banging. “This way. Break it down if you have to.”

I quickly unlocked and flung the door open before whoever was out there started smashing it in. A wave of bodies rushed in, almost trampling me in their haste. Something in the air was seriously irritating my eyes.

Glancing into the hallway, I could see that the other guests were awake and making their way toward the exit.

Voices continued to shout.

“Wait outside!”

“Go on, hurry!”

“Fire!”

Someone opened my bathroom door. Thick smoke billowed out. I began to cough.

“Everybody get outside!”

It finally registered with my confused, oxygen-deprived mind: The inn was on fire! I had to get outside before I inhaled any more smoke. My throat contracted, and I found myself coughing uncontrollably. How long had I been sleeping while smoke was wafting into my room? It didn’t matter. I was alive, and if I wanted to stay that way, I had to get out.

My mind was a jumble. Should I take my things with me? Money? Passport? I couldn’t think straight with all the commotion. Someone decided for me. A man gave me a shove. “Get going if you want to see the light of day.”

My gaze fell upon my laptop. I grabbed it and ran out into the hallway, tripping along, realizing I was one of the last guests to vacate when Jeannie practically shoved me from the building. She followed swiftly behind me, glancing back, a worried expression on her face.

“Is your father out?” I called to her.

“Aye. He’s safe and sound,” she answered, moving off.

A fire-and-rescue truck had arrived, a miniature version of the kind of fire trucks I was used to seeing in America, immense vehicles with every kind of lifesaving piece of equipment and long, powerful hoses. This one seemed dinky in comparison. Could it really get the job done?

Outside, fresh, cool air cleared my mind. I shivered while taking a quick inventory of all I’d left behind . . . which amounted to almost everything. Except for my manuscript, tucked away safely inside a file on my laptop. We all have our own priorities in an emergency, and this had been mine. Adding my cardigan or a blanket to the list would have been a nice touch.

As I stared up at the building, at the window of my room, where smoke rolled out through the now open window, one of the other guests turned to me, angry and fearful. “This is yer fault!”

“Mine! What?” I’d had nothing to do with this.

“Smokin’ in bed, that’s wha’!” another guest decided.

“I don’t smoke,” I said in my defense. “I’ve never smoked. Maybe it was faulty wiring.”

No one seemed convinced.

By now, the emergency fire brigade was taking charge, rolling out hoses, handing out equipment, all operating as one well-oiled machine. Thankfully, I hadn’t seen any flames inside, but smoke was still making its way out of the building. Had the fire been contained?
Please, be contained.
I kept glancing down the street, hoping another fire truck would arrive. Because this little one could use some help.

“Aren’t more trucks coming?” I asked whoever wanted to listen.

“This is the only one within close tae fifty kilometers.” Metric conversion isn’t my strong suit even on a good day, and it must have been apparent because the person speaking helped me out. “That’s about thirty miles.”

The only one within thirty miles? From my extremely limited but highly memorable experience with the Highlands’ narrow, windy roads, I knew it could take a good hour or longer to travel thirty miles. It had taken me much longer than that coming the forty or so miles from Inverness. By the time backup arrived, the entire town might burn down.

No flames yet, though.

“It’s yerself again,” I heard from behind me, and I turned to find Inspector Jamieson addressing me in a rather resigned, exhausted manner. “I haven’t had a good night’s rest since ye arrived. It’s like having a newborn pup keeping me up till all hours o’ the night.”

His gaze traveled down to the hem of my shirt, reminding me that all I was wearing beneath it was my underwear. He quickly turned his eyes elsewhere. “Yer shivering, lass. We’ll have tae get ye covered up somehow,” he said. “And find ye lodging elsewhere.”

I hadn’t thought about actually abandoning my room and all my belongings for longer than it took to contain the source of the smoke. I clutched the laptop. “My car keys are up in the room, my money, everything. How can I go anywhere?”

The inspector’s look shifted over my shoulder. “I’m guessing a ride is here fer ye,” he told me.

A ride? Sure enough, as I turned in bewilderment, I saw Vicki MacBride making her way toward me with a blanket under her arm. Inspector Jamieson moved off as Vicki swept me into her arms and squeezed.

“I can’t breathe,” I managed to choke out when she didn’t let go.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, releasing me and wrapping the blanket around my freezing body. “It’s that I’m relieved is all.”

“How did you find out about the fire?” Small-town gossip couldn’t have made its way to the farm—and certainly not to Vicki—so quickly. She nodded to where I now saw the volunteer police officer from earlier talking to several inn guests. “Sean Stevens called and warned me that you might need a friend,” she said. “I almost had a heart attack when the phone rang at that hour of the morn, but I’m glad he let me know.” She looked down at my bare legs, still exposed to the crisp night air.

“Everything I own except this computer is up in my room,” I told her. “Passport, cash, shoes, everything.”

“Come home with me, then, and we’ll fix you up.”

“I can’t leave yet. What if they let me back into my room?”

Vicki took a moment to study the situation—the fire truck and the smoke still escaping from the open window. “It won’t happen for hours, if then. Plus, you smell like a chimney and you’re half-naked under that blanket. Let’s get you a shower and you can wear one of my nighties. It’ll be a bit big for you, but I suspect you won’t mind.”

Vicki led me to her car, where her two West Highland terriers, Pepper and Coco, were waiting for us.

Glancing up into the cloudless sky, I thanked my lucky stars for this new friend. I didn’t know what I would have done without her.

The next morning, Pepper and Coco greeted me by jumping up on the bed, an amazing feat, considering their small sizes. The Westies lavished me with attention in the form of wet kisses and moist, cold nose rubs. One of them rolled over for a belly rub. “You must be Pepper,” I said, spotting a telltale black marking.

Outside the window, the sky was steel gray and rain streaked the glass. Vicki had given me a nightgown at least three times too large and then had ceremoniously thrown my odorous, sooty T-shirt in the outdoor trash.

What day of the week was it anyway? It took a moment to remember that it was Saturday.

“I’ve got porridge cooking on the stove,” Vicki said when I made an appearance in the kitchen. She looked much fresher than I felt. “And I put the kettle on when I heard you stirring. You sure slept a long time, but I expect you needed it.”

She placed two individual pots of tea next to place settings, then sunk down in one of the chairs. “The tea has been steeping long enough. Go on, sit.”

I sat down and looked around the kitchen. It was large, a combination kitchen and dining room, with a built-in washer and dryer.

I imitated my hostess by pouring a cup of tea and adding a dash of milk from a small pitcher. After taking a sip, I judged it to be the way I’d drink tea from now on. Delicious.

“How do you make your tea?” I asked her. “It’s wonderful.”

Vicki beamed. “Nothing to it really. Just steep one bag of tea for each cup, then add one for the pot. And don’t forget to cradle the pot in a nice tea cozy.”

She made it sound so simple.

After a few minutes, she rose and transferred a bowl of dark fruit from the counter to the table.

Vicki confirmed my suspicion. “Prunes. They’re good for you.”

Had I ever eaten prunes before? Not that I recalled. But after tasting them, I decided I liked prunes.

Next, she scooped up porridge from a pot on the stove, filled two bowls, and came back to the table.

“I have news,” she told me, placing one of the bowls in front of me. “Some good. Some not so good.”

“Great,” I said with a dab of sarcasm.

“Which would you prefer to hear first? The good? Or the not so good?”

“The good news,” I decided, digging into the bowl of oatmeal.

“Well, first is that that nice Officer Stevens fetched your car and dropped it off this morning with the help of another bloke. The keys are in the vase next to the door.”

I wasn’t sure that was good news.

“
And
the Whistling Inn didn’t burn beyond repair,” Vicki said. “But your wing suffered smoke damage, and apparently the fire was set off in your room. No question about it. How do you suppose that happened?”

“I have no idea,” I said stiffly. “I hope you’re not implying that I set it intentionally.”

“Nothing of the sort. You see, though, here in Scotland, and in most parts of the UK, we have a real fear of fire and take every precaution against it.”

I suspected as much, considering every establishment I’d entered had fire extinguishers front and center.

Vicki went on, “For example, we don’t typically have electric outlets inside bathrooms like you do in the States. Lord, that’s just asking for trouble, in a Scot’s opinion. But there may have been an outlet in yours for men’s shavers only and a sign warning as much. You didn’t try to stick the hair dryer plug into it, did you?”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“The voltage here has twice the strength of that in the States. If you tinker around and get a zap here, it isn’t a little shock to the system like you’re used to. A bolt of it will drop you dead in your tracks. That’s a future warning from a friend who doesn’t want to see you perish.”

I hadn’t touched the outlets, but it was apparent Vicki didn’t believe me. And if she didn’t, nobody else was going to believe me, either.

“Well, however it took place,” Vicki said, “good thing somebody on the street noticed smoke pouring out your open window or we might not be having this conversation. You’d be dead from smoke inhalation, and then I’d have lost a friend as soon as I’d found her.”

I lost my appetite with the spoon midway to my mouth. Open window? I hadn’t left the window open. I’d seen one open when I watched from the outside, but I’d assumed a firefighter had opened it.

I set the spoon down. “Are you sure the window was open? Who told you that?”

“The inspector, so I have no cause to doubt it.”

Had someone started that fire in my room, perhaps entering—or exiting—through the bathroom window? It wouldn’t have been difficult; my room was only on the second floor, not that hard to scale the outer wall. Once inside, they could have set the fire and exited the same way they’d come in while I was sound asleep in the next room.

I shuddered at the thought. How creepy would that be? Who would do such a thing? And why? And would anybody believe me when I insisted I had nothing to do with what happened?

But if Vicki’s good news was that the fire had begun in my room, I didn’t want to hear the not-so-good news.

“The other news,” she went on before I could properly prepare myself, “is that the inspector is coming round, and it can’t be for a social visit.” She glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the entryway. “And speak of the devil, there he is.”

Sure enough, her words were followed by a knock on the door. Pepper and Coco started barking after the fact, and Vicki rose to let a very damp Inspector Jamieson into the house.

I wondered if I’d have been so quick to let in the police if this had been Chicago. Letting a cop into your home without a warrant wasn’t the American way, especially if said cop is out to get you. But here was Vicki not only welcoming the inspector, but offering him tea while taking his umbrella and seating him across the table, where he could study me with those questioning, intelligent, penetrating eyes of his.

I shifted awkwardly, self-conscious in Vicki’s nightgown. At least I’d showered and washed the smoke out of my hair last night.

“According tae the fire chief, it wasn’t an electrical fire,” the inspector announced, addressing me. “Besides, yer electric appliances were still packed away inside yer luggage with the proper transformer beside them.”

Despite his clearly intending this to console me, knowing he’d gone through my things felt like a major violation. What exactly were my rights in Scotland? Did I have any, as a guest in their country? I forced myself to relax, deciding to face his interrogation with confidence. After all,
I
knew I hadn’t set the fire.

“Perhaps,” he continued after preparing his tea, “it wasn’t accidental at all.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” I retorted, feeling myself bristle, even though I had no idea what he was implying, “it really was arson on someone’s part, that someone
not
being me.”

“We’d never think you had anything to do with it,” Vicki said. “Not on purpose.”

I continued firmly, wanting to force the inspector’s hand. “Now that you’ve ruled out an accident, isn’t the only other explanation that it was set intentionally?”

The inspector remained silent, staring at his teacup.

I kept going. “I didn’t stuff flammable material in the garbage and light it on fire before turning in for the night, if that’s what you think. What kind of nut would that make me?”

Okay, so he didn’t know me. I could be a nut.

“I’ve had just about enough of your insinuations,” I burst out angrily, even as part of me realized that the inspector had actually said very little. It was what was left unsaid that was most important. “I’m sure you are perfectly aware that my background is spotless.”

“I’m aware o’ that.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Background checks are routine,” the inspector said, rather stiffly, “in situations such as these.”

“Fires, you mean? Or murders?” I was so angry, although I had to admit to myself that my anger might be misdirected at this man who was charged with investigating, when it was the circumstances themselves that had me frustrated and fuming.

“Now, calm yourself down,” Vicki said. “Do either of you want a nice almond biscuit?”

I wasn’t finished with him yet. “Do you mind everybody else’s business so thoroughly? How about Vicki? Did you do a thorough background check on her?”

A moment of silence ensued.

“Well, did you?” Vicki said, hands on hips now that his investigation might broaden to compromise her personal life as well.

Of course he would have. But apparently she hadn’t thought that far.

“I do my job as I see fit,” he replied to her, not answering directly, then he turned to me. “I apologize if I’ve offended ye, but ye might be more sympathetic if ye looked at the situation from my point o’ view.”

“It’s been an exhausting few days,” I muttered in my defense. A real understatement.

“I’d like tae hear yer opinion o’ what happened in that room,” he said. “Without ye feeling ye have tae get defensive.”

“I’ll get those biscuits,” Vicki said with traces of anger still in her tone. She hurried to get them and returned to the table in a flash.

After careful consideration, and without being sure if he really valued my opinion or if he was hoping to lead me down a path of self-incrimination by letting me talk myself into a corner, I responded. “Bear with me for a moment and consider this possibility,” I suggested, breathing deeply to calm down. “I wonder if whoever set it didn’t want to actually harm me or anyone else staying at the inn. If that were the case, the person responsible wouldn’t have left the window open for the smoke to escape.”

“Ye mean it wasn’t ye who left it open?” the inspector asked, clearly surprised.

I shook my head. “When I went to bed, the window was closed.”

“Did you remember latching the window before bed?” Vicki asked.

“No, but I didn’t notice whether it was locked or not, either.”

“Must o’ been unlocked,” the inspector said. “There was no evidence of a forced entry.”

I continued. “What if the Whistling Inn was the target? Maybe the arsonist wanted to shut it down for some reason, at least temporarily. Since I only just arrived, and no one in all of Scotland could possibly have a grudge against me, I’m going to guess that my room was chosen at random. Maybe my window just happened to be unlocked.”

While I wasn’t sure I believed my own theory, it did have some merit. And if there was a way to get the inspector to look for the real culprit, I’d give him as many theories as he could process.

“Or,” Vicki added, “it was an inside job. Whoever cleans the rooms might have left the window unlocked for an accomplice.”

“Whatever the case,” the inspector said, “I’m afraid that the smoke damage won’t be cleaned up anytime too soon. Which reminds me, I have yer bags in my Honda. I put them there as soon as the fire brigade told me it was safe tae go up. Wouldn’t want anybody rummaging through yer personal belongings.”

He read the look on my face, and added, “Anybody who isn’t conducting official business, is wha’ I meant tae say.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. I still wasn’t happy he’d gone through them, but I was grateful he’d brought them over.

A few moments passed while we all savored Vicki’s biscuits and sipped our tea. Then the inspector glanced out the window. He let out a heavy sigh, and said, “Bugger. The fool managed to track me down.”

I followed his gaze to where volunteer police officer Sean Stevens was hurrying up the walkway.

“Ye will never guess what I’ve just found out!” Sean fairly shouted when Vicki let him inside out of the rain, after stopping briefly to shake himself like a wet dog.

“I’m not in the mood fer games,” the inspector roared at him.

“Most o’ the blood on the floor wasn’t belongin’ tae the sheep shearer after all,” Sean told us with great excitement. “The results came back while ye were out and aboot, Inspector.”

The inspector looked pained. “If this is official business,” he said to his trainee, “ye best be keepin’ it between the two o’ us and not go shouting it from the rooftops.”

But the newbie cop was too excited to contain himself. “It weren’t Gavin Mitchell’s blood on the floor o’ the cottage,” Sean announced.

“Stop!” The inspector was on his feet.

But it was too late. “It was pig’s blood, cannae ye believe it?”

Inspector Jamieson looked about to explode. He practically hauled Sean off by the scruff of his neck.

The last thing we heard from Sean as he was whisked outside was, “Wha’s the matter? Wha’?”

“Ye have a big mouth, is wha’!”

The inspector came back with my bags, his face set and grim as he placed them on the floor, then whirled around and stalked out without another word.

Then they drove off separately, the inspector gunning it down the lane, the special constable attempting to keep pace.